A pleasant new Ballad to sing both Even and Morne,
Of the bloody murther of Sir John Barley-corne.
To the tune of, Shall I lie beyond thee.
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AS I went through the North Country
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I heard a merry greeting:
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A pleasant toy, and full of joy,
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two noble men were meeting.
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And as they walked for to to sport,
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upon a Summers day,
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Then with another nobleman
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they went to make a fray,
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Whose name was sir John Barly corne,
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he dwelt downe in a dale:
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Who had a kinsman dwelt him nigh,
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they cald him Thomas Goodale.
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Another named Richard Beere,
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was ready at that time:
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Another worthy Knight was there,
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cald sir William White Wine.
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Some of them fought in a Jacke,
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some of them in a Can:
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But the chiefest in a blacke pot,
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like a worthy noble man.
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Sir John Barlycorne fought in a Boule,
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who wonne the victorie:
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And made them all to fume and sweare,
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that Barlycorne should die.
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Some said kill him, some said drowne,
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others wisht to hang him hie:
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For as many as follow Barly-corne,
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shall surely beggers die.
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Then with a plough they plowed him up
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and thus they did devise,
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To burie him quicke within the earth,
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and swore he should no rise.
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With harrowes strong they combed him
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and burst clods on his head:
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A joyfull banquet then was made,
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when Barly-corne was dead.
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He rested still within the earth,
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till raine from skies did fall,
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Then he grew up in branches greene,
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which sore amazd them all,
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And so grew up till Mid-sommer,
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which made them all afeard:
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For he was sprouted up on hie,
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and got a goodly beard.
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Then he grew till S. James tide,
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his countenance was wan,
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For he was growne unto his strength,
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and thus became a man.
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With hookes and sickles keene,
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into the field they hide,
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They cut his legs off by the knees,
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and made him wounds full wide.
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Thus bloodily they cut him downe
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from place where he did stand,
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And like a thiefe for treachery,
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they bound him in a band.
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So then they tooke him up againe,
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according to his kind:
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And packt him up in severall stackes,
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to wither with the wind.
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And with a pitch-forke that was sharpe,
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they rent him to the heart,
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And like a thiefe for treason vile,
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they bound him in a cart.
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And tending him with weapons strong,
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unto the towne they hie,
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And straight they mowed him in a mow
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and there they let him lie.
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Then he lay groning by the wals,
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till all his wounds were sore,
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At length they tooke him up againe,
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and cast him on the floore.
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They hyred two with holly clubs,
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to beat on him at once,
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They thwacked so on Barly-corne,
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that flesh fell from the bones.
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And then they tooke him up againe,
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to fulfill womens minde
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They dusted and they sifted him,
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till he was almost blind.
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And then they knit him in a sacke,
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which grieved him full sore:
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They steepd him in a Fat, God wot,
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for three dayes space and more.
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Then they tooke him up againe,
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and laid him for to drie,
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They cast him on a chamber floore,
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and swore that he should die.
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They rubbed and they stirred him,
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and still they did him turne,
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The Malt-man swore that he should die,
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his body he would burne.
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They spightfully tooke him up againe,
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and threw him on a Kill:
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So dried him there with fire hot,
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and thus they wrought their will.
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Then they brought him to the mill,
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an there they burst his bones,
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The Miller swore to murther him
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betwixt a paire of stones.
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Then they tooke him up againe,
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and servd him worse then that,
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For with hot scalding liquor store
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they washt him in a fat.
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But not content with this God wot.
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that did him mickle harme,
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With threatning words they promised
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to beat him into barme.
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And lying in this danger deep,
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for feare that he should quarrell,
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They tooke him straight out of the fat,
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and tunnd him in a barrell,
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And then they set a tap to him,
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even thus his death begun:
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They drew out every dram of blood,
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whilst any drop would run.
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Some brought jacks upon their backs,
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some brought bill and bow,
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And every man his weapon had,
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Barly-corne to overthrow.
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When Sir John Good-ale heard of this,
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he came with mickle might,
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And there he tooke their tongues away,
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their legs or else their sight.
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And thus Sir John in each respect
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so paid them all their hire,
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That some lay sleeping by the way.
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some tumbling in the mire.
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Some lay groning by the wals,
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some in the streets downe right,
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The best of them did scarcely know
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what they had done ore-night.
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All you good wive- that brew good ale,
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God turne from you all teene::
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But if you put too much water in,
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the devill put out your eyne.
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